


Warmth To Shame The Sun

by Interrobang



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt Finally Gets A Vacation, Hints of Only One Bed, M/M, Rimming, Spa Treatments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28049295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrobang/pseuds/Interrobang
Summary: It wasn’t often that Geralt had the luxury of true rest. Case in point: the nest of monstrously large venomous spiders he was currently slashing through. Silk sheets? The closest Geralt had gotten in many years was the shimmering spider silk he was now pulling off himself in great swathes. A face mask? Maybe getting acid spit in your face was someone’s idea of a skin care routine, but it wasn’t Geralt’s.The mud bath, at least, he partook in regularly.--TL;DR Geralt gets a spa day and his ass eaten.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 296
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Warmth To Shame The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> The REAL fantasy here is the long bath and massage. Forget the sex-- every night I dream of a hot soak in a deep tub and someone to rub my sore muscles.
> 
> Also, yes, that IS an Always Sunny In Philadelphia Reference in my Witcher fic.

..

It wasn’t often that Geralt had the luxury of true rest. Case in point: the nest of monstrously large venomous spiders he was currently slashing through. Silk sheets? The closest Geralt had gotten in many years was the shimmering spider silk he was now pulling off himself in great swathes. A face mask? Maybe getting acid spit in your face was _someone’s_ idea of a skin care routine, but it wasn’t Geralt’s.

The mud bath, at least, he partook in regularly.

Regardless, Geralt did not much see the point of that kind of frivolity. Massages and perfumes and mysterious pastes slathered over your skin were the realm of overly-frippy nobles, not someone with limited coin and even more limited time.

Geralt was just wiping the last of the spider guts off his face, genuinely quite pleased with how the task had gone, when Jaskier brought up the idea of a vacation for the first time and soured his mood.

“You know what you need?” Jaskier asked as they hiked away from the splattered mess that had once been a nest of literal wolf spiders. “You need a spa day— you’ve earned some real relaxation.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted noncommittally, because that was his usual go-to when he wasn’t sure exactly what kind of response Jaskier’s non sequiturs called for.

“No, I’m serious.”

Geralt eyed him warily as they marched on, not sure what exactly he could say that would stop this train of thought now that it was well under way. “No.” That worked, sometimes.

Jaskier eyed Geralt and his splattered armor, glistening with bile which— if his face was anything to go by— reeked something awful. “We should find a spa next time we’re in a city proper.”

“A spa…” Geralt huffed, mouth a moue of consternation. “I feel like you’re trying to say another word. Are you trying to say spiders? Why would I want _more_ spiders? Why would _you_ want more spiders?”

“Goodness knows I don’t need any more spiders, but— no,” Jaskier huffed. “A _spa_ day, Geralt. You know, hot baths, massages, scented oils, lovely ladies to rub the scented oils into you _via_ massage…”

“Hmm,” Geralt said again.

“You could get your hair washed and combed,” Jaskier said in a way that Geralt knew was meant to be enticing, though it sounded more like he was trying to bait a feral cat. “Have some fiddly little finger foods...maybe even have someone take care of _little Geralt_ properly, if you toss them a little extra coin.” He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

“If you ever refer to my penis as _little Geralt_ ever again I will relieve you of your own,” Geralt grumbled, unable to help the quirk of his lip nonetheless.

And, as intended, Jaskier blustered and protested and forgot what he was talking about for a bit.

But the topic came up again and again. After spending weeks in the mountains hunting a cockatrice; after a few days in a quaint little lakeside village trying to thoroughly eradicate a nest of drowners; on a particularly rough evening slopping back to town covered in the remnants of bloedzuigers: each time Jaskier would make a wistful comment about this or that bath house in the last city they’d been near.

And indeed, while Geralt headed to the alderman’s in the next city they stopped in, Jaskier disappeared from his side. Geralt was just finishing up getting all his coin accounted for when the bard popped back into existence at the office door, bouncing on his heels with barely-contained excitement.

“I found us something excellent!” he sing-songed, doing a little trot down the cobblestones and indicating that Geralt should follow. “A place to stay, a hot bath— and more, my friend,” he said with a wink that somehow failed to assure Geralt that following him was wise.

He led Geralt— and Roach, and the wafting aroma of monster-viscera that followed them— to a large building, elaborately decorated in the front with pillars and wrough-iron embellishments, with a valet that took Roach’s reins from Geralt with a mostly-well-hidden grimace.

Jaskier pushed through the front doors with a triumphant, “Ladies! You have your work cut out for you!” pulling on Geralt’s wrist to (ineffectually) urge him to move more quickly into the posh interior.

Geralt balked at the room he’d been corralled into: high ceilings, carved frescos, grand vases of fresh flowers everywhere. A fountain bubbled in one corner next to a harp player that had paused her playing to stare in shock, along with the rest of the staff, at Geralt. He supposed the viscera _could_ be a bit off putting.

This was not the tavern inn he’d been expecting. He narrowed his eyes at Jaskier. So did the commanding woman whisking through a doorway to greet them.

“You didn’t say he was a— _hmm_ ,” the woman clearly in charge of the place said with a frown when she got a good look at who Jaskier had brought with him. Walked around them once, giving Geralt the distinct impression that she was weighing some sort of equation he’d never encountered.

Geralt stood, immensely uncomfortable, as the woman continued her acerbic assessment. The workers around her stared apprehensively, eyeing the gore on them with fear. Geralt fought to keep the look of disgust off his face at the smell of it; he was used to caution, but outright fear had the kind of pungent, sour waft to it that would put a skunk to shame.

“My Manon—” Jaskier corrected himself at the woman’s narrowed gaze. “My dear, beautiful, _gracious_ woman,” Jaskier said, laying on the charm. He shifted to try and take the woman’s hand in his own— only for her to delicately remove it from his palm. His smile faltered a bit, settling on businesslike calm instead. “I did put down a, er, _sizable_ sum for the suite.”

“I’m not putting my girls in with a Witcher,” she said decisively.

“He’s gentle as a lamb,” Jaskier insisted. “Really, a softie, a marshmallow— “

“It’s fine,” Geralt cut in, uncomfortable with the attention they were garnering. “A tub to rinse with and whatever you have left from lunch and we’ll be out of your way. Just— take care with the horse. She, at least, deserves all the care you can give her.”

The woman’s hard expression softened a bit. After a considering pause, where she looked Geralt up and down and Jaskier made his best pleading face, she turned to Jaskier and said, “It’ll cost you extra for the laundering if we take him.”

“I tend my own armor,” Geralt said warily.

“Not _your_ things,” the woman said with mild annoyance, an eyebrow raising. “Good wash linens aren’t cheap to procure, and the stains on you look the kind that’d melt my finest cotton.” She straightened her spine and motioned to the attendants behind her to make ready. “Alright, then. Self-service only, extra for the laundering, and _you_ can be his valet,” the woman said, pressing a stack of towels and a basket of sachets and stoppered fiddly little bottles into Jaskier’s arms. “Now get out of my foyer before you scare off my regulars.”

“Well?” Jaskier said, looking at Geralt expectantly over the stack of toiletries. He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, from which steam and splashing sounded. “C’mon then, off we go.”

Sighing, Geralt followed.

The “suite” seemed to come in two parts. The first was a cozy room with two plush chairs in front of a crackling fireplace, a basin of water on a side table along with a stack of pristine white linens that Geralt already felt bad about having to use to scrub off his leathers, and a huge, decadently plush, _singular_ bed.

“Must’ve gotten my request for ‘accommodations for two’ mixed up,” Jaskier muttered with a flush. “Still! Waste not, want not.” He promptly dropped his belongings on one side of the bed with a sigh before setting his lute in its case on the side table with far more care.

Geralt was slower to unburden himself. He set his packs and saddlebags gingerly on one side of the room before undoing his armor, taking care not to make the mess worse. The last thing he needed was to get the ungodly slime into the _buckles_ of the whole thing. Setting the waxed canvas wrap he kept for just such purposes under the lot of it, he mixed a cleaning solution he kept for his armor with a bit of the water in the provided basin and preemptively soaked a few of the cloths in it before laying them over his leathers to soften the dried grime a bit. He could scrub them properly when he was done bathing himself.

Maintenance prepped, he sighed and looked around a bit more. In the time it had taken Geralt to undo his outer shell, Jaskier had already stripped down and donned a robe— and was now holding out a second one, indicating that Geralt should take it and do the same.

“Baths are down the hall a bit,” Jaskier said apologetically, “but it’s private, comes with all the soaking salts you want, and if you’re polite enough I might even be persuaded to comb your hair for you.”

Despite himself, Geralt smiled, albeit a small one, barely detectable to all but those who knew what to look for— namely Jaskier. “Alright, then. Just this once.”

“‘Just this once,’ he says,” Jaskier muttered gleefully. “As if he doesn’t purr like a great housecat every time.”

Geralt threw his six-days-worn shirt at him in response, allowing himself a laugh at the squawk he got in return.

The baths, when they got to them, were the most extravagant thing Geralt had seen in a long time. The room itself was larger than their bedroom, the floor well-kept granite with drains inconspicuously placed for the water that no doubt flooded it regularly. A huge bath steamed on one side of the room, set under a line of lamps that cast warm, gentle light through the steamy interior. One wall had a wide wooden bench which, when tested, was actually _hot,_ which Geralt made a note of to lie on later.

There was also a padded table off to one side next to a table full of stoppered oils and pots of salves. The table was strewn with rose petals. Somehow it seemed like a trap. Geralt immediately vowed not to go near it.

It took three hefty buckets of hot water before Geralt was clean enough for Jaskier to allow him in the actual shared bath: one to get the initial sticky coating of monster guts off his skin and out of his hair; one to scrub the layer of road grime from his body; and one to actually lather up and get fully clean. When at last the water came away clear and Geralt’s skin felt raw and new, Jaskier shooed him towards the bath in the center of the room. To Geralt’s delight, he found that it was filled with water that, upon testing, was satisfactorily scalding. Jaskier then tossed in a satchel of herbs: the infamous chamomile, yes, but also sage, rosemary, clove.

“Planning to turn me into a stew, then?” Geralt mused, even as he sunk into the water with a deep, satisfied groan.

“Perhaps,” Jaskier said glibly as he started in on his own wash routine. He huffed at his own joke, humming as he scrubbed himself down, inspecting the various oils and unguents in the basket the proprietor had provided him with.

“Madame Manon is usually much, er, _friendlier_ ,” Jaskier continued after smelling all the vials one-by-one and eventually selecting one that smelled, even from a distance, of some kind of sharp citrus and pungent ginger. “Sorry about all that.” He glanced at Geralt for a second before splashing the soap on a comically large sponge and lathering up.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” Geralt said tiredly. “A regular inn would have been fine.” He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with hot steam as he tried to untense his muscles one by one. Despite his misgivings about the general concept, it did feel good to sit in the heat, every inch of him clean.

“Never mind what would have been _fine,”_ Jaskier said with a scoff. “Everyone deserves something extravagant every now and then. It’s not your fault the staff here don’t know how to behave in front of an honored guest.” He dumped a bucket of cool water over himself with a splash and brisk shake before turning to Geralt with a raised eyebrow, dark hair plastered to his forehead. “I always got the sense that rude people smell worse than the rest of us. Is that just me? Witchers can smell that kind of bullshit, can’t they?”

“Like carrion,” Geralt said with a wry quirk of his lips. He sunk deeper into the water, closing his eyes and allowing himself to luxuriate in the nearly-too-much heat of the bath. The scented steam of the place had long since pushed out the faint fear-stink; what was left behind _did_ smell nice, the herbal, spicy aroma soothing more than the froofy floral perfumes he’d feared.

Geralt lay in the tub comfortably for what could have easily been hours or minutes, so soothing was the quiet, muffled ambiance around him. Somewhere in the distance Geralt could hear a harp being plucked, the music patternless and soothing. The harpist must have gotten over Geralt’s intrusion.

He closed his eyes and listened to Jaskier fuss around with the different soaps, investigating all the corners of their little suite. Before he realized it, he was nodding off a bit, losing time to the heat of the tub and the sweet, spiced smells around him.

He drifted while Jaskier splashed himself down into the bath opposite him, barely stirring a current while Geralt enjoyed himself. The bard hummed his pleasure at the heat of it, sinking into the deep water with a satisfied sigh. Even his legs, longer than Geralt’s own, brushing against Geralt’s hip didn’t bother him. It was almost comforting to have the bulk of another human at his side, firm and solid and not afraid.

Jaskier never _was_ afraid, was the thing.

“Still want me to comb your hair, O lord of house cats?” Jaskier asked after a few moments, shifting as if to get up and fuss around again.

Geralt let one hand fall to rest on Jaskier’s ankle, squeezing once. “Later,” he murmured sleepily. “Quiet for now.” Jaskier made exactly one minute squeak and then was still, sinking further into the water.

The harp played in the distance. Water dripped from several points around the room, soft as the remnants of a spring drizzle. Jaskier’s breath was even and slow, only the occasional sigh breaking the rhythm of it. The quiet lasted long enough that Geralt almost fell asleep, dozing lightly with his head rested against the stone lip of the tub.

And then a whiff of citrus and ginger at his side. He blinked awake, aware and tense again just as Jaskier tapped his shoulder.

“Alright, get up.” Jaskier was at his side now, wading over to him from the other side of the tub. Jaskier urged him up with a determined look in his eye and patting hands over Geralt’s torso as Geralt slowly started to sit up. “I did promise you a massage. The lovely ladies may not be available, but they at least left the oils.”

“And you’re to be my masseuse?” Geralt asked with a raised eyebrow, groggily willing his body out of the luxurious heat. “Didn’t know you were trained.”

“Not formally,” Jaskier said, puffing his chest out a bit. “But you have it done to you enough, you pick up a few techniques.”

He pushed Geralt towards the padded table on the opposite side of the room— exactly where Geralt had thought to avoid.

He stared warily at the flower petals strewn over it. “You said you asked for accommodations for two?”

“Yes,” Jaskier replied a bit sheepishly. “I specifically said ‘two bachelors who are in need of proper rejuvenation.’ Apparently that means something different around here.”

“Indeed,” Geralt said with a huff of a laugh.

Against his better judgement, Geralt brushed off the petals and lay down on the padded table, settling his towel over his waist. Though they’d seen plenty of each other over the last many years travelling together, somehow it seemed proper that Geralt should hide at least the bare minimum while in this extremely vulnerable position. The table under him was plush and soft, soaking up any remaining water on his skin easily, and the room was warm around them, faintly steamy and just dim enough that Geralt could reluctantly let himself relax into it.

It was surprisingly easy to lay there, pliant and vaguely sleepy, as Jaskier puttered around him digging through the little pots of salves and oils the attendants had left behind. It was sort of like when Jaskier cleaned up his various minor wounds after a fight; but with much less fussing about scars and infection or his own squeamishness.

The oil he eventually drizzled on Geralt’s chest was warm and smelled of sandalwood, sending golden heat down Geralt’s spine. Jaskier’s hands, too, were warm, rough at the fingertips and firm where they dug into his skin. And they were _strong;_ Jaskier pushed his palms into and then dragged his fingers over Geralt’s chest and shoulders, rubbing in the oil and digging into sore muscles.

Jaskier hummed quietly as he ran his hands in long, soothing strokes up and down Geralt’s arms, using pressure to crush the muscle under hand just firmly enough that Geralt felt like all the tension in his body was being pulverized like soft fruit under a mill. Each stroke of Jaskier’s warm, strong hands relaxed him further and further, until Geralt began to doze a little again, back into the half-slumber of the bath. It didn’t help that the room was dim, lit only by the many sconces that threw the room into a warm glow.

It was there, the half-space between waking and sleeping, where he was all instinct and golden putty feelings, that Geralt noticed his body’s reaction to Jaskier’s touch: his cock was filling, plumping up against his hip where it was hidden by one of the spa’s thick towels. Not quite panicking, Geralt tried to rouse his relaxation-thick tongue to speak a distraction.

“How exactly did you learn to do this?”

“Well, trial and error with different partners, you know,” Jaskier said jovially, grunting as he pressed his palms into the meat of Geralt’s chest, pushing out more tension from one pectoral. “The higher echelons of society tend to wear _the_ most impractical shoes; leads to a lot of sore legs and hips and the like.” His fingertips grazed a nipple; Geralt made his best effort to hide the hitch in his breath at that, though he was sure Jaskier must have noticed the gooseflesh raising over his skin.

“Seems a useful skill,” Geralt tried again, willing his cock to soften before it became noticeable.

“Sometimes,” Jaskier said noncommittally. “Alright, up and over, chatty Kathy,” he said before standing back, twirling his finger to indicate that Geralt should roll over. He seemed nonchalant about the whole thing, his eyes only gleaming with the barest hunger as Geralt moved on clumsy limbs to try and roll over without exposing his embarrassing condition. Jaskier was just...being helpful. Geralt hadn’t smelled fear on him for many years; but he also only had the faintest whiff of the lust-stink that he usually did when Geralt was ill-clothed, so this _was_ in fact likely just a favor for Geralt. He should take it for what it was and leave it well enough alone.

Geralt settled on his front, relaxing again as Jaskier drizzled yet more spiced oil over his shoulders and started spreading it with his blessedly hot hands again.

Jaskier was quiet except for the occasional sigh or grunt of effort as he worked thoroughly over Geralt’s shoulders, diligently digging into deep knots in his shoulder or along his spine into tense and rarely-tended back muscles. He dug his thumbs into the very base of Geralt’s spine, just above his buttocks, setting loose something Geralt did not know was there and leaving him feeling faintly bruised, but looser.

Geralt fully expected Jaskier to take his liberties with his buttocks, considering the number of times the bard had improvised half-verse odes to it in jest, but to his surprise Jaskier skipped right over it, fingers instead digging into Geralt’s legs. He ran his hands in long, firm strokes up and down Geralt’s thighs, breaking up the tension there before moving on to his calves.

“Oh, you _have_ got knots, don’t you?” Jaskier chided, digging his thumbs into a painful knot that felt like the size of a grapefruit in Geralt’s left leg. “You’re as knotty as a thousand-year-old oak, Geralt. When was the last time you stretched before exerting yourself? Or after?”

“Monsters don’t exactly give you a warm-up lap,” Geralt grunted, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain. Air rumbled through his chest as Jaskier broke a particularly hard knot in his calf, making his toes curl as relief flooded through him.

“Ah, there’s the purr,” Jaskier said with a satisfied tone. "Got calves like rocks though, don’t you, goodness,” Jaskier continued. “And ...thighs.” Jaskier suddenly shut up as he finished on Geralt’s other leg, working his way back up.

Geralt felt Jaskier’s stare on his backside like an iron brand. He rolled his eyes, content to lay there like a very mushy lump until Jaskier made up his mind about whether or not he was going to attempt...that.

Jaskier seemed to make up his mind quickly enough, peeling the towel aside and gripping Geralt’s cheeks with more than the required force, a resounding oil-wet _slap_ and giddy laugh echoing through the marble chamber. Geralt fought a groan as Jaskier dug his thumbs into the much-abused seat of his body, treating it just like any other muscle.

Well, not _just_ like any other muscle. Whatever Jaskier was doing back there must have been fascinating by far, as the room— previously warm and only smelling of the fresh, rich herbs in the bathwater— now began to take on the savory notes of lust.

Ah, that’s what Geralt had been waiting for.

Or, well, _waiting for_ was perhaps the wrong phrasing. Expecting, and surprised not to have encountered already. Jaskier was practically the walking embodiment of lust when it came to a nice body, and as he had expressed several times before, he thought _very_ highly of Geralt’s physique.

Geralt may...have indulged him a bit over the years. Or at least not reacted as badly as he could have to the ribbing, the flirting, the frequent insinuations that Jaskier was more than willing to _stable their horses together_ (his words, and no, _not_ his worst euphemism) at the slightest indication that Geralt would welcome it.

Jaskier seemed to be getting his own kind of enjoyment out of his slow exploration and admiration of Geralt’s backside, but it was torture for the Witcher. Not only was Jaskier’s touch just firm enough to be sensual, it actually felt ungodly _good_ to have someone dig into the numerous knots in what he admitted was a rather neglected area. Each pass of Jaskier’s firm touch over him broke down more tension, making Geralt more and more sensitive, just this side of sore that it felt good.

Geralt sighed, willing himself to untense his legs from the pain, going pliant against the table. He forced his breathing to even out again, taking in deep lungfuls of the steamy air. That was a mistake: with each breath he took in the clean scents of soap and bath herbs and the citrus and ginger of Jaskier behind him— and the rich, savory roiling waft of lust that was starting to dominate the immediate area around them.

It was...luxurious. Decadent. It was the kind of soft touch and all-encompassing warmth he hadn’t felt in decades. The urge to lean in to it, to indulge, was almost overwhelming. Geralt shifted slowly on the table, small enough movements that hopefully Jaskier wouldn’t be able to tell exactly what he was doing. It just felt good just to move a little, stealing the smallest bit of friction against his hardening length trapped between his belly and the table.

All at once Jaskier’s hands paused at the crease of Geralt’s thighs, thumbs digging into the groove that separated buttock from leg. He stayed there, by all means just holding Geralt’s cheeks, for long enough that Geralt was sure he must have noticed him shifting under his hold.

Then, very slowly, Jaskier spread Geralt wider, exposing the cleft of him down the middle. Geralt held his breath. The lust stink was almost overpowering now, savory and rich and mouth-wateringly good. His thumbs dipped in, spreading oil down Geralt’s crack.

One thumb brushed ever so gently against Geralt’s hole. Just rested there, the pad of his thumb against the divot of him, not pressing in. Just...resting. _Testing_. Geralt heard Jaskier hold his breath; heard his heart pound a little bit harder. He didn’t spare a glance backwards, afraid of what he would see.

The thumb rubbed, circling Geralt’s hole over and over until the oil all but dried up, rubbed right into his skin. Geralt didn’t quite— _moan_ wasn’t the right word— but he sighed ever so slowly, spreading his thighs just a little further apart.

And then Jaskier’s hands were gone. Geralt jumped, ready to look over his shoulder and ask what made him stop, but one of Jaskier’s hands settled on his lower back, pressing him back into the table.

“Don’t look at me,” Jaskier said hoarsely, his fingers fidgeting against Geralt’s lower back. “I don’t think I could bear it right now.” A deep, shaky breath, his nails digging into Geralt’s skin like he was soothing a wild animal. “But— an answer. Just...a yes, or a no, or a ‘fuck off, Jaskier,’ if you please, Geralt?” His voice broke on the last syllable, hoarse and deliberately vulnerable in tone.

Geralt took a deep breath, opening his mouth to respond— and paused. What exactly _did_ one say in this situation?

“I—” Geralt swallowed thickly, wishing that the attendants had left a pitcher of drinking water to fight the heat of the room. “Yes,” he said at last, his voice hoarse and low, more akin to gravel than he had ever heard it himself. At the last second, he added a very quiet, “Please.”

“And you’re not going to pretend it didn’t happen for the next fifteen years?” Jaskier asked, voice high and thin with nerves.

“I won’t,” Geralt assured him quietly, feeling his face flush dark enough to shame the local grapes.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier said with a huge sigh, his relief almost palpable as he laughed and ran his hands down Geralt’s flank in what was now open enjoyment. Before Geralt could voice his own feelings on the matter, the drizzle of hot oil down the small of his back made him moan.

It dribbled down his sacrum to the cleft of him, hot and slick, pouring over his hole and down to coat his testicles, fat against the table and now plump and hot where Jaskier gently cupped them. Geralt held his breath in his throat carefully, a repetition of his “please” sitting on his tongue like a lump of lead that would spill over at the slightest tremble, made molten by his desire.

Instead he let his forehead fall back to the padded table, pillowed on his forearms to hide the flush on his cheeks.

The lust-smell wafted over to him ever stronger, the spice of it warming him on every inhale. Jaskier’s hands were larger than he remembered, his fingers long and thumbs calloused as they pet his hole, gliding up and over, pressing in with just a hint of pressure.

Geralt spread his legs a little more widely, unable to stop himself from inching backwards, arching incrementally towards where Jaskier was standing at the end of the table. His balls, warm and heavy in the fog of relaxation, twitched as Jaskier gently cupped them, rolling them around in his palm as if considering them in depth.

The thumb pressed further. Geralt held his breath— then exhaled sharply as Jaskier’s thumb dipped in and out, slipping in with no resistance, so well-oiled were his fingers. And yet Jaskier did not plunge in. He was more careful that Geralt might have expected, if he had ever thought about this scenario coming to life. He was quiet, his breath shallow and quick as his excitement seemed to build behind Geralt. The tension was nearly palpable.

And then Jaskier was gone.

This time Geralt _did_ lift his head up, ready to turn and ask— demand— that Jaskier get on with it— but before Geralt could get a word out he grunted in surprise as he was _hauled_ up and backwards by the hips until he was kneeling on the edge of the table, his ass in the air and his arms and face still low to the padded top.

His heart ratcheted up to a tick almost near a normal human heart beat. Exposed. He was _exposed_. He whipped his head around, adrenaline starting to flood his veins, but then— heat, luxurious and wet, as Jaskier spread Geralt’s cheeks and dove in like he was devouring a feast spread just for him. The bard lapped the flat of his tongue over Geralt’s taint, one hand coming up to cup Geralt’s balls again, the other squeezing one ass cheek rhythmically, like a cat kneading a particularly favorite pillow. Jaskier moaned high and loud as he feasted. He dug his tongue into Geralt’s hole, delving deeper and deeper, his humid breath skating over Geralt’s tailbone.

Geralt groaned, letting himself be squeezed and fondled and _held,_ the wet heat of Jaskier’s tongue slick against his overheated skin. His cock twitched beneath him, swinging like some pendulous weight between his thighs as he rocked back against Jaskier’s hands, lips, tongue, _teeth._ Jaskier dragged his blunt teeth along one cheek like he was testing a peach, nibbling once before leaning down to draw one testicle into his mouth ever so gently, sucking just hard enough that Geralt groaned quietly, feeling his sac tense at the heat and pressure.

Geralt arched his back as Jaskier feasted on him, head buried in his folded arms. He bit down on one forearm just to have something to anchor him— the bloom of pain bright and burning, tying him down to reality just as his body threatened to come undone.

He gasped when a hot, slick hand tugged on his cock. Jaskier stroked him slowly, lovingly feeling along his frenulum to play with his foreskin, barely threatening with the tip of his calloused thumb to dip under it. Instead the finger pressed meanly against the slit of his cock, coming away slick and sticky. Geralt managed to flick his eyes open just long enough to peer down between his thighs to see Jaskier’s long fingers stroking his cock with apparent reverence, his massage there just as thorough as he’d been over Geralt’s knotted back. He closed his eyes once more; if he had to watch the damn man, this would be over sooner rather than later.

He jumped again when Jaskier’s other hand— previously used to hold him open— massaged at his hole with insistent pressure, the tips of his fingers rough as they teased. Jaskier gasped as he sat back— Geralt had just a second to see cherry-red lips, plump and shining with spit, split into a hungry grin— and then lay his cheek down on Geralt’s hip as he pressed two oil-slick fingers inside Geralt.

Geralt grunted once at the pressure but quickly melted again, widening his stance ever so much more. Fuck, but his bollocks felt like they would burst any second, drawn tight, twitching every time Jaskier stroked his cock with his tight, slick fist. He tensed, holding back what was quickly becoming an inevitable fireburst in his gut— made electric as Jaskier bent his fingers and _pressed._

It was like he’d found a bit of lightning and slammed it right into Geralt’s gut. He shouted— one hoarse, low groan, a pitch so rough it sounded almost wounded— and felt himself convulse around and into Jaskier’s hands, gasping breathlessly as Jaskier leaned back in and stuck his tongue in along his fingers for one last taste.

Geralt lay sanguine on the table, body collapsed to mush on the padded top of it. He didn’t even want to think about what he looked like right now: he could feel his hair stuck to his face, mussed beyond belief; he was still, somehow, arched with his ass in the air, hips open as he slowly came down from his high. He shuddered, feeling his balls give one last pulse as Jaskier’s fingers withdrew, his sacrum suddenly cold without Jaskier’s body heat and warm breath ghosting over his back.

The last to go was Jaskier’s hand from his cock. When Geralt groggily lifted his head and dared a look behind him, Jaskier was looking at his hand consideringly. It was thoroughly drenched in Geralt’s spend, dripping over bony knuckles and down his forearm in a way that made Geralt instantly, viscerally want to rub it into the skin.

Jaskier, too, looked like he’d been through the wringer: cheeks red, lips plump, his eyes dark with desire. He looked thoroughly debauched, though Geralt suspected _he_ looked even worse.

“Well!” Jaskier said after he’d caught his breath. “If that doesn’t melt your bones, I don’t know what will.” He gave Geralt’s buttock a friendly pat, reminding Geralt that he could— if not lay down, what with the mess— at least slowly lower himself off the table.

Geralt slowly clambered off the table with legs only as sure as a newborn foal’s, dazed and unsure how to proceed. Instead he stared: at Jaskier, who seemed somehow both satisfied with his task and yet anxious. He was still very, very obviously aroused, cock bobbing in front of him with clear excitement. Jaskier seemed to be purposefully ignoring it as he went about wiping down his arm and trying to get the worst of the mess off the table itself.

How should Geralt approach this?

Jaskier seemed to sense Geralt’s trepidation, however, because he laughed again. “I assume you’re worrying about something you don’t need to worry about again, my friend.” He raised an eyebrow, then used the cleaner side of the towel to wipe off his spit-shiny chin. Geralt flushed, thinking of just where his mouth, with that pink tongue and swollen lips, had just been.

“You don’t want…” Geralt gestured awkwardly, vaguely nodding in the general direction of Jaskier’s erection.

“Oh, I most certainly _do_ ,” Jaskier said, flushing now to the tips of his ears. Fuck, but Geralt wanted to chase that flush— watch it spread patchy down his chest, feel the heat of it as he warmed Jaskier’s body— “But I believe I promised you little morsels of fine food fed to you by beautiful maidens, and well— “ he laughed awkwardly at his own repeated joke. “Less the maidens, I am here to serve.”

He shooed Geralt back toward the waiting tub. Geralt went reluctantly but obediently, casting bewildered glances backwards at Jaskier as he went.

Jaskier directed him away with one hand as he swigged water back and rinsed his mouth thoroughly. “Back to soaking. The morsels will be here soon.”

“I have...one request.” Geralt said before he climbed back in the water, clearing his throat awkwardly. He felt immeasurably more naked somehow than he had moments ago, body sated and tired and yet his mind thrumming with energy.

“Yes?” Jaskier asked, tilting his head to one side like a particularly curious bird.

“Let me return the… the favor,” Geralt said stiltedly, feeling his face bloom red in the cheeks. “The—” He cleared his throat. “Everything.” He let himself half-smile as he thought of one last caveat. “Though I suppose you require less hair scrubbing than I do.” He looked away so that he didn’t have to look at Jaskier’s face lighting up so unbearably brightly.

“Now _that_ I can do. When you’re rested up…” Jaskier eyed him hungrily, savory lust smell filling the room again. “Let’s make use of our room, yes? Only I have _thoughts_ about that bed, you see, and I’m beginning to wonder if the gods and Madame Manon may not have been right about its placement.”

Geralt smiled. “I’ll allow it.”

“ _Allow_ it,” Jaskier scoffed. He ducked Geralt’s attempted cuff on the shoulder, instead swiftly wrapping around him like an amorous squid to hold Geralt’s face and press a quick, surprisingly chaste kiss to his lips before waltzing backwards out of range of Geralt’s nervous hands. “If you don’t beg me for another spa day before the year— well, perhaps for your scale we’ll say decade— is out, I’ll eat my favorite doublet.”

“It’s a bet,” Geralt said with a more open smile than he’d allowed himself in many months. “I’ll hold you to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come check out what else I've been up to lately over on Twitter! I'm @GoInterrobang there. :)


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